


Sherlock: More To The Story

by 5her1ock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baby Sherlock Holmes, Backstory, Canon Backstory, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Holmes Brothers' Childhood, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock Holmes, Mentioned Eurus Holmes, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Pirate Sherlock, Pre-Canon, Protective Mycroft, References to Moriarty, Sherlock's Violin, Young Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:15:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24636667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/5her1ock/pseuds/5her1ock
Summary: Who is Sherlock Holmes? How did he become the man we all meet in "A Study in Pink?" While we are taken though the amazing twists and turns of the detective's life in BBC's Sherlock, we meet the mysterious detective in his twenties, with little to go on until season 4 about anything that's happened in his past.It may be a bit unconventional, but I intend to create a backstory for Sherlock (specifically BBC's Sherlock), while trying to stick factually as close to canon as my memory allows. While still technically an au, I'm hoping to answer many of the questions I personally have about Sherlock Holmes in my own creative telling of the life of the world's most famous consulting detective.
Kudos: 14





	1. PART I: Ch 1 - Moving Day

It was a warm summer evening, the sun was low in the sky. It cast a red glow over the misty green grass on the front lawn. Two brothers, clever as they come, chased each other teasingly through mud and flowers and piles of rocks. The older of the two would fuss a bit every time the younger would turn around to kick some dirt upon his shoes. Try as he might to discontinue his little brothers' actions with his words, the determined younger brother had an inclination to act upon his impulses rather than to succumb to the irrefutable logic of his older and self-proclaimedly wiser sibling.

“Sherlock, why must you insist upon teasing me in this way, you know Mum will make you clean my shoes, as you are the one who threw dirt upon them. Therefore, there is no sense in you dirtying them now for it will only prove to give you more work later.”

“Because, brother mine, it is well worth it to watch the look on your face when I do this,” after which statement, Sherlock proceeded to kick more dirt onto Mycroft's shoe, giggled, and then darted as fast as possible in the other direction.

Mycroft plopped himself down on a bench in defiance, “I refuse to engage with you any further if you insist on acting like a child.”

“You forget,” Sherlock insisted, “that I am a child.”

“All the same I am not, and therefore, I encourage you to go play with our sister, for she is much closer to your age, and would probably enjoy these silly games of yours.”

“But she scares me Mycroft, I don't like playing with her.”

“What's so scary about a five-year-old girl? If you won't play with her then I suggest you make some friends at school, because if you continue to insist on constantly playing with me I will surely go mad.”

“That would be an improvement,” the sarcastic six-year-old replied.

Mycroft, who may have had more brains, but lacked the quick wit of his little brother, merely scoffed and proceeded into the house.

Just then, there was a noise in the distance. Curious by nature, the young Sherlock didn't think twice before investigating. When he had walked a short distance, and reached the top of a sizable dirt mound, he saw a large white object in the distance by a house that had been vacant for a little over a year. He could not quell his interest in the matter, so he wandered down the road. The closer he got, the better he could see the object: a moving truck. Before he could process his actions, he was leaning on a tree by the driveway of the house assessing the situation.

There were a total of five people making trips back and forth from the truck to the house. There were four adults and one child. Three of the adults were male. Two of the men appeared to be much stronger than the other. The third, he deduced—correctly—was the man who was to move into the house with his wife and child. The other two men, then, were either relatives or friends of the happily married couple, and based on the way they were primarily interacting with the husband, Sherlock assumed they were his relatives, most likely brothers given their age and the way they seemed to tease the husband in a way only brothers do.

“Oh, hello there,” a woman's voice. Sherlock had been so busy watching the men unpack boxes that the woman had escaped his field of view.

“Hi,” Sherlock stumbled for words, “sorry, I didn't mean to... I erm... I saw the van from my house... I live just up the street... I just wanted to...”

“Oh don't worry dear!” The woman assured him, “I have a son who is probably about your age, he has that same spark of curiosity about him. I'm Susan Trevor, that over there is my husband Bill, and my son Victor is around here somewhere, most likely finding some trouble in the house, you can go look for him if you'd like. Are your parents with you?”

“No, they don't know I came down here, I should probably be getting back to them, I presume they're wondering where I've wandered off to this time.”

“Well, then you'd best be off. Do feel free to come back and visit if you'd like, once we're all settled in here. I'd love to have your family over for dinner, so we can get to know our new neighbors.”

“I'd like that,” Sherlock smiled kindly. He liked his new neighbor, she seemed genuinely warm and welcoming. He hoped that her son was the same, although he didn't really care what the boy's temperament was, he longed for a playmate, and promised to return to meet him.

Sherlock proceeded home to find his mother scowling at him from the front porch of his house. He bowed his head and scurried inside, knowing full well a lecture was sure to ensue.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” his mother began once he was inside, “where have you been?”

“I wasn't far Mummy, I just went for a stroll down the street. We have new neighbors, and I wanted to go see...”

“Sherlock how many times do I have to tell you that you can't wander off on your own like that, especially at dusk! Your father and I have been calling after you for a quarter hour, scared to death of what could have happened to you.”

“I'm sorry Mummy,” Sherlock squeaked ashamedly.

“Sherlock you know I love you, and wandering off this way simply isn't safe, I just worry that something may happen to you, so for the next week I only want you going outside under Mycroft's supervision.”

Before he could utter a word of protest, Mycroft cut in, “Why me? This simply isn't fair, I should not have to be the one to babysit this nuisance out of your fear that he may wander from the yard as he always does.”

“Well Mycroft,” replied their mother calmly, “I feel this may help you to form a better opinion of your brother, don't think that I haven't observed the interactions between the two of you lately.”

Once again without a smart retort, Mycroft proceeded up the stairs to his room.


	2. Part 1: Ch 2. - The Invitation

Exactly seven days later, little Sherlock was free of his brother's hovering at last. He was free to play alone outside, meaning he was free to play his favorite game: detective. His parents did not necessarily disapprove of his playing this game, however the amount of detail with which he set up his make-believe crime scenes they felt was unhealthy for a boy of his age. In an effort to convince his parents that he was not a sociopath, Sherlock took to playing these games in secret.

In the midst of solving a case involving a monkey, a zookeeper, and an animal trainer as suspects of murder, Sherlock caught a glimpse of his new neighbor headed his way. As he had previously climbed up a tree to “investigate” the monkey, he jumped off a low-hanging branch to the surprise of the unexpected guest.

“Well hello again,” the kind woman remarked with a smile.

Sherlock stared at her, observing. He then uttered a quick, “Hello,” upon realizing the amount of time that had elapsed without him having said anything.

“Are your parents home? I had hoped to invite them for dinner tomorrow night.”

“They are,” he responded plainly, “would you like me to fetch them?”

“That would be lovely, thank you dear.”

Sherlock ran across a smooth stone pathway and disappeared into his house. It took him several minutes to locate his mother, for the Holmes' residence was rather large. He had found both Mycroft and their father before finally discovering the whereabouts of his mother. She was drinking tea, and scribbling something about math far beyond Sherlock's understanding into a little book she had open upon her lap.

“Mummy, there is someone here to see you.”

“Oh, lovely! Who is it darling?” She asked cheerfully, as she always welcomed company.

“It's the new neighbor,” Sherlock stated blandly.

Mrs. Holmes immediately sprang up from her chair to go and receive her guest. There was a kind exchange of introductions, a few laughs shared over Sherlock's having already met their visitor, and eventually an invitation extended for dinner the following night.


	3. Part 1: Ch 3. - Hole In The Wall

“Father, please will you let me have a puppy,” Sherlock pleaded, already knowing the answer.

“I’m sorry son, I wholeheartedly wish I could give you what you desire, but alas I have allergies.”

“What if I brush him every day? What if I set up barricades to keep him only on the side of the house in which my room is?”

“I’m very sorry Sherlock, I have to stand firm on this particular topic. If you wish to have a snake or a fish or a rodent of some kind, I would be happy to give any of them to you.”

“I do not wish to have any of those things, father. I wish to have a puppy.”

“For that you must wait, my son, until one day you are old enough to purchase your own house, for then you can have whatever animal you choose.”

Sherlock flopped on the sofa in defeat, just as Mycroft sauntered in.

“Do stop your whining Sherlock, to have the same argument time and time again, expecting a different result is useless, and you should know better.”

“That may be so brother, but persistence can show how much one wants something, and is, therefore, a means to achieve a goal.”

“Yes, that may be so, but there is a substantial difference between persistence and petulance, and you, young one, have yet to discover it.”

“Enough you two,” declared their father, raising his hand for emphasis. Both boys ceased their banter, their silence quickly broken by a loud boom echoing from the other end of the house.

A look of deep concern flashed across Mr. Holmes’ face, and he quickly spang up to investigate the noise, followed closely behind by Sherlock and Mycroft.

“No, you two stay here,” he turned around to caution them.

Mr. Holmes dashed out of the room, and as soon as the two boys were sure he had turned the next corner, Sherlock began to head toward the same doorway his father had just vanished though.

Mycroft grabbed his shoulder, and pulled him slightly backwards, “What do you think you’re doing?” he hissed.

“Going after Father, of course,” he stated nonchalantly.

“Do you ever listen?” Mycroft questioned, obviously annoyed.

Sherlock wrestled himself from his brother’s grasp, and raced down the hall. Mycroft, knowing he was the only one available at the moment to keep his little brother out of trouble, followed. 

Mr. Holmes had located the source of the small explosion. Sherlock and Mycroft peered around the wall they were hiding behind, but could see nothing. They watched as their father knocked aggressively on their sister’s door.

“Eurus, are you okay? If you don’t open this door I’m coming in!”

Within seconds the door handle clicked, and the door tentatively opened. A little girl with bright blue eyes gazed up to her father, her tiny hand falling back next to her side.

“Eurus, what was that noise?” Mr. Holmes softly demanded.

“Well,” she began, “I took some of my toys apart. I wanted to see how they worked. Then I built a new toy. Then there was a fire. And that set off an explosion.”

Her eyes dropped to the floor. The second Sherlock glanced around the wall, his sister’s eyes lifted slightly to meet his own, as if she knew exactly when he would appear. The corner of her mouth twitched into what could possibly be considered a smile. Sherlock shuddered and pulled himself back behind the wall, sinking down into a sitting position on the floor next to Mycroft.

“Okay, erm,” they heard their father hesitate, unsure of what to do when one’s child accidentally blows a hole in the wall of their room, “well, are you okay?”

“Yes. I’m perfectly fine Daddy,” she assured, innocently smiling up at him.

“That’s good. Can I come in so I can look at the rest of the damage to the wall?”

“No thank you,” she calmly turned back into her room, gently closing the door behind her. 

Mr. Holmes just stood for a moment, clearly terrified of his own daughter. He knocked on her door again, his hand visibly shaking slightly. 

“Yes Daddy?” Eurus answered sweetly.

The longer he talked to her the higher his voice became, “We’re going to the neighbors’ tonight… for dinner… all of us. Can you be dressed and ready to go by 6:00?”

“Yes Daddy.” She nodded, then once again shut the door on her father.

He turned down the hall, sending both his sons scrambling to go, but before they could make it very far, they heard their father’s voice, once again in its normal timbre, “Sherlock? Mycroft? No need to rush off so hastily, the pair of you aren’t as sneaky as you think yourselves to be.”

They turned to face their father who had caught up to them. He gave them a playful stern expression, and then could not help but let a smile creep up on his face. He scooped up Sherlock in his arms and headed down the hall. Sherlock hugged his father tightly, resting his head over his father’s shoulder. 

Suddenly, Sherlock thought he heard a noise coming from the direction from which they just departed. He looked up to find Eurus standing at the far end of the hallway. Just standing. Her gaze was unmistakably pointed at Sherlock, unblinking. 

“Myc!” He cried, turning his head towards his brother, but the second he looked back, she was gone. 

“What is it Sherlock?” Mycroft replied, glancing back at his brother, concern in his eyes.

“Nothing,” the youngest Holmes boy breathed weakly.


	4. Dinner

“Checkmate in two,” Mycroft taunted his younger sibling as he slid his queen across the board.

“Not possible!” Sherlock nearly shouted, his hands moving to steeple position in front of his face, as he intently surveyed the board. 

Sure enough, Mycroft won in two moves, as he had predicted. Sherlock, baffled, began to move the chess pieces one by one to their previous positions as Mycroft stood up and walked over to the sofa.

“I don’t understand how you constantly win! Though you are superior to me in age there are many things to which I am your equal. At this I could be, yet I am not. Therefore I shall study the game until I achieve the ability to beat you, for there is nothing I enjoy more than the challenge to win a game.”

“Oh, don’t be smart Sherlock, I’m the smart one, and we both know it. If you take it upon yourself to try and defeat me at this game, your time will have been wasted. Your intellect is incontrovertibly inferior to mine.”

“Not so!” Sherlock cried, overdramatically pretending to be deeply insulted. With a swift motion of his hand, he managed to accidentally tip over a few of the chess pieces on the board in front of him, causing Mycroft to groan and lean his head onto the sofa.

The brothers were soon interrupted by a voice calling them in the next room, “Mike! Will! Time to go to the neighbors! When you’ve got your shoes on, meet us in the foyer.”

“Don’t call me that!” Both boys responded in unison. Having already put their shoes on, they both rushed to meet their parents, the younger hurrying along with much more speed and enthusiasm than the elder.

They arrived at the door, their parents and sister already there awaiting them. Together the entire Holmes family proceeded out the door and down the street. When they arrived at the house of the Trevors’, Mr. Holmes knocked lightly on their door. They were greeted by a small child with messy red hair and a big smile. 

“Well hello,” Mr. Holmes greeted, leaning forward and returning the child’s smile, “you must be Victor.”

“Yes I am! Mummy told me to open the door and let you inside. She’s still cooking dinner.”

“Thank you very much,” Mrs. Holmes chimed in as the couple led their children inside.

“Mummy usually says not to answer the door. We knew you were coming though, so today she said I could,” the young boy continued the conversation, simultaneously proceeding towards the kitchen.

“Well hello Mr. and Mrs. Holmes!” A voice called from somewhere in the kitchen.

Mrs. Trevor suddenly appeared before her guests, adorned with an apron and an oven mitt. There was a bit of perspiration on her forehead, which Sherlock of course noticed, and presumed his brother did as well. She was decorated with bits of potato on her apron, and carried with her a spatula still dotted with the remains of meat she had previously been stirring.

“Shepherd’s Pie,” Sherlock blurted to the small group. He realized too late that he had spoken out loud, due to the small shove he received from Mycroft, who was beside him.

“Yes dear,” Mrs. Trevor laughed, “you are a clever one aren’t you!”

“Yes,” he responded with a straight face looking up at her, again receiving a small shove from his brother.

“What?” Sherlock whispered to him, getting no response.

“Susan, thank you so much for having us over for dinner, you have such a lovely home!” Mrs. Holmes began, blatantly ignoring the interactions between her sons. She went on to introduce the family members whom Susan Trevor had not previously met. 

It was not long before Mr. Trevor arrived home from work, and the party of eight sat down for dinner. It began with some pleasant conversation between the adults, with Mycroft chiming in here and there. He was more interested in talking with people, “more sophisticated in nature than some boring little children,” he had remarked to Sherlock earlier on that day.

Sherlock, having previously had little interaction with other children his own age, was fascinated with Victor. He too tended to participate in the adult conversations, causing them on numerous occasions to burst out laughing. Sherlock, along with his younger sister, stayed quiet for most of dinner. Sherlock noticed his sister was observing the Trevor boy just as he was. He glanced to her many times, and noticed that her expression hardly changed. In fact, he could have sworn her face didn’t even move. Of all the times his gaze wandered to her, he never once saw her blink. 

“Who’s ready for some dessert?” Mr. Trevor declared to the table when there was a slight lull in the conversation. 

“I do not want dessert,” Sherlock proclaimed.

“Thank you,” his mother whispered to him from two seats over.

“Thank you,” Sherlock corrected.

“I don’t want dessert either,” Victor corroborated, “I’m too full.”

“You two can go off to the playroom if you’d like, we’ll call for you when the Holmes’ are leaving,” Susan Trevor suggested.

“Alright!” Victor exclaimed and led Sherlock upstairs. Sherlock turned back and glimpsed his sister’s gaze, piercing blue eyes pointed straight at him, before the two boys disappeared upstairs.


	5. Fast Friends

It only took a few weeks for Sherlock and Victor to become inseparable. It wasn’t difficult to see that the two were the perfect pair. They had many similar interests, the main one of which was their undying fascination with pirates. The two could spend hours frolicking about, pretending the sand in Sherlock’s backyard was a vast ocean. 

Their bond reached further than just a common game, though. They shared a similar humor, making each other laugh almost to the point of crying. Neither child ever minded the obvious gap in intellect between them; while Victor by normal standards had an above average intelligence, his own understanding was still far below that of Sherlock’s. They instead used this to their advantage. While Sherlock was ever the planner, Victor could bring a more whimsical and adventurous element to their play. 

“We must steer the ship to land immediately! If we don’t, the dwarves will surely catch us and steal all of their gold back!” Victor called from the front of a ship they had constructed out of a few pieces of wood, a very large stick to serve at the mast, and a shirt of Sherlock’s which no longer fit tethered to the top as a flag.

“Land shall not be in sight for eight and a half more kilometers, will we make it in time?” Sherlock answered.

“We may! Look friend!” Victor pointed up towards a passing cloud, “There is an island in the sky, if we rig the sails just right we may be able to fly to it!”

Sherlock seemed confused for a moment, but continued to play along, “I do not know if there is enough time to figure out the mathematics so that can be achieved.”

“You must believe,” declared Victor plainly, “if you believe you can do it, then you will.”

“I can do it,” Sherlock nodded confidently, hand flying madly, working out problems on an imaginary paper. 

When he was finished, he quickly instructed Victor on how to hold his part of the sail to catch the wind, and mirrored Victor’s position on the other side of their makeshift boat. The shirt flapped furiously in the wind as the breeze in the yard picked up. Sherlock could feel the wind in his face. Sure it was cold, but he didn’t notice. He glanced over to his friend who had shut his eyes, apparently to more fully experience the breeze, so Sherlock did the same. He felt so free, so light, like if he wished hard enough he really could fly up to an island in the clouds. 

The moment soon ended with a small voice grabbing both the boys’ attention.

“May I play too?” the youngest Holmes child asked, the firmness of her voice not equaling her actions as she rocked forward on the balls of her feet and back, planting her heels on the ground. Her gaze was fixed directly on her brother, and she almost seemed to be ignoring the existence of their young neighbor. 

“Yes,” Sherlock replied tentatively, and looked to Victor for approval. He was reassured with a smile and a nod.

They explained the basic rules of the world they had created to the new member of their game, and quickly went on playing. No more than a few minutes passed by before little Eurus began asking questions.

“Why can’t we just turn around and kill all the dwarves?”

“Because that’s not very nice,” Victor quickly asserted.

“You stole their gold, that wasn’t very nice either.”

“They stole it first, and we’re giving it back to the people they stole it from,” Victor replied, his confidence in his choices not showing any signs of wavering.

“So if you’re implying that they’re the bad guys, they were unfair and should be punished. Therefore killing them would not only be just, but it would solve your problem, they’d be dead and they’d no longer be chasing you,” at this point, all her statements were pointed directly at Victor. Her posture was upright, but relaxed, daring him to engage further into this conversation. 

“But we still can’t kill them, they’re living creatures.”

“They wouldn’t be any more if you killed them.”

Sherlock cut their conversation short, “Let’s go inside. Now that we’ve reached the island, we should change our location. My bedroom should be the perfect place. It is carpeted, we can pretend it’s genetically altered grass in the sky, which we happen upon, and want to bring back to earth!”

Sherlock led his friend toward the house, and Eurus began to trail behind. Sherlock looked briefly back at his sister, and gave her an icy look, warning her not to follow. She retreated and sat down on the boat, but she did so with her steps bold and not slinking. Her air portrayed nothing but compliance with her brother’s unspoken request, yet something in her eyes shot Sherlock a message that he was too afraid to decipher.


	6. The Incident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it takes me so long to update this fic!! I do intend to continue it but I'm not really sure how far, it will continue to be updated sporadically though.

Sherlock walked into his family home one Saturday evening, following a long afternoon playing with his best friend. As he wandered in, the house seemed eerily quiet. He tentatively made his way toward the kitchen, as usually his mother was cooking dinner at this point in the day. He couldn’t smell anything, though, nor could he hear the usual clamour that accompanies the act of creating a meal. 

Mycroft intercepted his little brother before he could reach the kitchen. He had made it just far enough to hear mumbling sounds coming from the direction he was headed. 

“Hello brother, have a good play?” Mycroft asked, genuine curiosity in his voice, no level of condescension present at all.

“What’s happened?” Sherlock asked, attempting to push past his brother and complete his trip to the next room.

“To what are you referring? That does not answer my enquiry about your day,” The eldest Holmes boy replied, trying to deflect the question and change the subject.

“You are never interested in anything regarding, well, me, unless mother asks you to be. You are obviously trying to send me away from the part of the house to which I intended to go, and, to be frank, you look absolutely dreadful. Now what is it you’re trying to hide from me Mycroft, I can tell when you’re lying, I’m not father.”

“It’s nothing you need concern yourself with. Why don’t we play a round of Cluedo, I’ll even let you be Colonel Mustard.”

The more his brother tried to pull him away from whatever was going on, the more Sherlock was intrigued. He knew Mycroft wouldn’t tell him what was going on, it was clear that their parents had instructed him to occupy Sherlock when he concluded playing with Victor.

“Okay,” Sherlock agreed enthusiastically, so as to be convincing, “I will go to my room and set up the game, but I am terribly hungry and thirsty from playing all day, would you grab us some snacks and drinks?”

“Alright,” Mycroft looked relieved, “I won’t be long, run along and I’ll meet you up in your room.”

Sherlock began in the direction of his room, curls bouncing as he went, leaving barely enough time for Mycroft to make it to the kitchen before he whirled around and headed in the same direction. He knew he didn’t have much time, and couldn’t get too close, but he could hear tidbits of conversation.

“Walked in… everywhere… she just stared…” his father’s voice, it sounded exasperated and deeply concerned.

“...don’t know what to do… wanted to see how her muscles worked… what do we do…” his mother sounded as if she had been crying, and was on the verge of breaking into tears again.

He then heard a very deep voice, a man he had never met before, calm and collected, speaking too softly for little Sherlock to hear. He decided it was time to head up to his room before Mycroft found him listening in where he shouldn’t have been. He raced up to his room, setting up Cluedo as fast as possible, making up for lost time to seem as inconspicuous as he could.

Mycroft walked in a little while later, arms filled with snacks and a cup of water for Sherlock. He sat down to spend nearly the rest of the evening playing games with his little brother. Sherlock decided not to pry anymore, or tell his brother what he had overheard. He was genuinely excited to spend some time with his brother, and that was more important to him than to find out more about whatever had happened with his sister. 

They began the evening with two rounds of Cluedo, both of which Sherlock won. Mycroft may have been the better strategist, but when it came to solving puzzles and mysteries, Sherlock would win nearly every time. Being only six years old, Sherlock's critical thinking abilities did have their limits, allowing Mycroft to be the occasional champion. Sherlock, however, would always accredit these times to pure luck, resulting in some playful sarcastic remarks to come from the elder Holmes boy. 

Mycroft allowed Sherlock to stay up two hours past his bedtime, then urged his little sibling that it was time to sleep when he began to yawn, and he could no longer concentrate on the game of checkers they were playing.

“One more game,” Sherlock pleaded, chin resting on his hand.

“No, brother mine,” Mycroft responded in a soothing voice, “you must sleep now, but I promise if you don’t protest further I will play another round with you tomorrow, and I can almost promise that I will win.”

“Deal,” Sherlock laughed sleepily, “except for the part about you winning!”

Sherlock then got up off the floor, and crawled into his bed. Mycroft flicked out the lights as he left the room, “Goodnight Sherlock.”

“Goodnight Mycroft… wait leave the door open,” Mycroft did as his little brother asked, and it took mere minutes for Sherlock to drift off to sleep.


	7. Part II- Redbeard

“Redbeard,” Sherlock breathed as he startled awake.

It had been five days since Victor had gone missing. Sherlock looked at the clock by his bed. It read 5:52. Sherlock was trembling, that incessant song bursting back into the forefront of his mind.

“I that am lost, oh who will find me? Deep down below the old beech tree…”

He reached for the pirate hat he had placed on his bedside table. The one his friend had given him. He clutched the hat to his chest and began to cry.

“The song is the answer,” was all his sister would ever say when anyone asked her where Victor was. 

The song grew louder and louder in Sherlock’s head, making it impossible for him to concentrate long enough to decipher it. He stood up, and proceeded towards his doorway, across a floor littered with papers he had discarded in his attempts to crack the riddle. He walked to the bathroom and opened the door. He flicked on the light, and glanced to the sink. It was filled nearly to the brim with water. He looked closer, then reached into the water, his fingers coming into contact with a soggy piece of cardboard. He shoved it in his pocket, and walked into the hall. The next thing he knew, he was across the house, at Eurus’ door.

He paced back and forth, trying to decide what his next move was. He could knock. He could open the door, waltz into the room and demand answers. He could plead with her, hoping she would show his friend mercy and provide him with the location of where to find Victor. 

Ultimately, Sherlock chose none of these options. Instead, he sat back against the wall, curled up into a ball, and let himself cry some more. It was right then he heard the humming. That song again. She knew he was out there. Filled with rage, Sherlock stood up, ready to pound on his little sister’s door. Just then, Mycroft came hurtling around the corner, grabbing Sherlock’s outstretched hand, and pulling him down the hall. 

They didn’t talk or stop moving until they were back in Sherlock’s room, and Mycroft closed the door behind them. Sherlock took a position on his bed, crossing his arms indignantly before bursting into tears. Mycroft instinctively sat down and wrapped his arms around his little brother, letting Sherlock sob into his shoulder.

“Shh, it’s okay Sherlock,” Mycroft assured, knowing that both of them knew that statement was false.

“He’s going to die, and it will be all my fault,” Sherlock said, his voice muffled, “I should be able to solve that riddle but I can’t! I can’t do it Mycroft!”

“Hey, look at me,” Mycroft gently pulled Sherlock’s face into his hands, “none of this is your fault. It’s not your job to solve a riddle that may not even be solvable,   
Eurus could just be giving us the riddle to throw us off track. There are so many people looking for him Sherlock: Mum, Dad, Trevor’s parents, Scotland Yard. They’re looking for him, you don’t worry. Please stop trying to solve the riddle, and get some rest.”

“But Mycroft, the riddle is for me.”

“What makes you say that?”

Sherlock hesitated for a few moments, then he pulled a small basket out of the drawer of his nightstand. Mycroft peered into the basket which held four square pieces of cardboard. He frowned, confused as to what significance these held to his little brother. A deep look of concern passed over his face.

“Wet pieces of cardboard? I don’t understand.”

“I found this one on the day he disappeared,” Sherlock explained holding up one of the pieces. He had regained his composure enough to relate to his brother the messages his sister had been leaving him. The piece in his hand was the only one that wasn’t marked by water, and the only one on which there were words.  
Shock washed over Mycroft in that moment, and in realization he breathed, “Colonel Mustards starting space.”

Sherlock then gestured to the rest of the squares, each one a blank tile from a Cluedo board, “She’s left one at the bottom of the bathroom sink every morning, filling it a little higher each time… she wants me to find him. I think water is significant somehow, but I’ve checked the little pond out back, I’ve checked all the bathrooms, anything that can possibly relate to water I’ve checked. I’ve spent hours digging under the beech tree, hypothesising that it had something to do with the recent rain, and that stupid song, but all my efforts have been to no avail.”

Mycroft placed his arm back over his little brother’s shoulder, as Sherlock just stared vacantly down at the basket in his hands. Sherlock then slipped his hand into his pocket, grasping the piece he had placed in his pocket earlier that morning, and dropped it defeatedly with the rest of the pile. 

“How about I tell you a story?” Mycroft asked, desperate for anything to get Sherlock’s mind off of his missing friend.

“A story? Why?” Sherlock asked, utterly confused.

Mycroft brushed off the question, and in a moment the two were lying down looking up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on Sherlock’s ceiling.

“It’s funny,” Sherlock smiled a little, “these stars, they are just randomly placed in meaningless constellations. Stars aren’t even shaped as they are depicted in those silly stickers. Why did Mum put them there anyway?”

“Because she thought you’d enjoy them,” Mycroft answered simply, “now, how about that story?”

“Alright,” Sherlock agreed softly.

“Once there was a little boy, and oh was he clever. He wasn’t as clever as his older brother, but he made up for that with his wit…”

Mycroft went on a fanciful tale of a boy and his Irish Setter (for that was the kind of dog Sherlock had always wanted) getting lost in a magical forest. He described their finding a castle, and battling goblins, and saving a band of elves whom an evil dragon was holding captive. 

Mycroft continued his story even after his brother had drifted off to sleep, hoping that in some way it may ward off his nightmares. Soon, he too was asleep again, in the land of dreams far away from the horrors of the real world.


End file.
